


Calibre

by dogandmonkeyshow



Series: Watson's Woes JWP 2017 fics [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Damage to other people's property, Gen, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 15:36:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11512350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogandmonkeyshow/pseuds/dogandmonkeyshow
Summary: “Oh, yeah, of course it'sbespoke,” John drawled as he rolled his eyes.





	Calibre

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Watson's Woes DW comm's July Writing Prompts daily challenge, prompt #12: For want of a brolly (lost umbrella).

Mycroft stared at the umbrella stand; where was his favourite sword umbrella? Now he thought of it, he hadn't seen it since the night Sherlock and John had broken into the house.

He heard his housekeeper dusting along the mezzanine corridor, so he called up to her, “Mrs White, have you seen my sword umbrella?”

“Which one?” she replied without moving.

“The blue one. It's been missing for some time.”

She paused, then slowly turned to look down to him in the foyer below and he suddenly had the sense that unless he was willing to put in the time to learn how to master Beef Wellington, he would need to choose his next words carefully.

~ + ~

“This is the weirdest gun I've ever seen.” John turned over the malacca umbrella handle/sword hilt/gun in his hand. “What calibre would this be?”

“Inadequate, just like its owner,” Sherlock muttered as he continued rummaging through piles of paper on the kitchen table.

“Why'd you steal it?”

Sherlock's head whipped around. “I did not steal it. I'm having it repaired.”

“Does Mycroft know you're having his umbrella sword gun repaired?” John looked at the various pieces strewn across the desk. “Who even knows how to fix things like this, anyway?”

“The same person who made it, of course.”

“Oh, yeah, of course it's _bespoke_ ,” John drawled as he rolled his eyes. He pulled the trigger and dropped it as the mirror above the fireplace exploded and fell to the hearth. “CHRIST! Sherlock, why didn't you tell me it was loaded?”

“You're a soldier; they never taught you firearms safety in the army? That would explain a lot.”

“I almost shot my face off!”

“With that?” Sherlock snorfled. “That thing would barely break the skin.”

“It managed to do for the mirror just fine.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn't be pointing guns at your face and pulling the trigger. Has no one ever told you that was generally considered a bad idea?”

“You told me it was broken!”

“No, I told you I was having it repaired.” Sherlock strode across the flat and grabbed the outer umbrella part, which he flourished under John's (thankfully still attached) nose. “See, here. The release catch is twisted. You can't open it without slicing your thumb open. Which Mycroft did that night. Which you would have noticed if you'd been paying attention.” Sherlock dropped it back on the desk and returned to his rummaging. “I'm surprised you managed to only get shot once in Afghanistan.”

“Not as surprised as I am that Mary was the first client who ever got around to shooting _you_.”

“She wasn't a client when she shot me.”

“What are you two up to now?” Mrs Hudson demanded from the doorway.

“John shot the mirror,” Sherlock replied before John could get a word in.

Mrs Hudson scurried over to the fireplace. “I don't believe you two.” She pointed a John. “You're a parent now, John Watson; you need to start taking better care.” She turned to Sherlock. “And you need to stop leaving guns around now there's a baby comes here.”

“And John needs to learn to check if a firearm is loaded before he starts playing with it,” Sherlock interrupted before she could really get going. “There, now we all have our assignments, can I please get back to trying to find my notes? Put that down,” he pointed at the gun John had picked up again and was holding with a dazed and angry expression. “Down,” Sherlock added, while pointing at the desk.

“Jesus, alright,” John muttered as he put the gun down next to the sword blade, carefully arranging it so that the snub muzzle pointed toward the window.

“Are you done shooting things up here? My book club's arriving in ten minutes and Beryl's prone to shriek at loud noises. It tends to put a damper on the conversation.”

The three of them glared at each other in turn for a moment before Mrs Hudson nodded, satisfied that she'd made her point, then returned downstairs.

“Why are you fixing Mycroft's gun thing?” John asked once they were alone and everyone was a little calmer.

“He offered to die for you, _literally_ , and you're questioning why I'd be willing to do him a small favour? Really?”

“Yeah, okay, fine. But you still hate him, though?”

“Yeah, of course I do; he's still Mycroft.”

“Good. Just checking.” John hid his smile as he grabbed a stack of paper half-buried under the munitions on the desk. “Is this what you're looking for?”

“Yes!”

~ + ~

[Three days later]

Mycroft had had a horrible day: the PM changing her mind seven times on the new Brexit legislation, the Foreign Secretary's flabby arse having to be pulled out of three fires, and Mycroft forced to endure thirty minutes of stultifying mumbled half-conversation with the new Met Commissioner, quite possibly the only woman in England duller than the PM. The Governor of the Bank of England saved his life in the end by dragging him away with some made-up crisis; but then, they went back decades, back to their Oxford days, and the current Governor had always had a decent political sensibility for a Canadian.

As Mycroft shuffled along the corridor to the staircase and a long-anticipated bath accompanied by a tumblerful of whiskey, a change caught his eye. He backtracked and stared at the umbrella rack. His favourite sword umbrella was back. He pulled it out and examined it, and in a moment noticed that the bent release catch had been repaired. With his first genuine smile of the day he returned it to the umbrella stand, and with a lighter foot continued on his way.


End file.
